


chromatic abberation

by agivise



Series: terra firma [2]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Stream of Consciousness, Unreliable Narrator, but try harder, daniel my sweet boy, jacobi compartmentalizing feat. past tragic relationships, you're trying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 13:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14356215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agivise/pseuds/agivise
Summary: He had crushes, sure. Flirted with one too many bartenders. Couldn’t go more than eight minutes in a conversation with someone without making a bad pun about his sexuality. He wasn’t immune to Cupid’s bullshit, but it never progressed to the point of love.





	chromatic abberation

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys i'm back!! sorry for the complete absence of updates, i had a pretty rough month but things are better now. i have a cold which is clearing up which means i have a bit of time to write.
> 
> mild blood warning, dark humor, swearing, what else is new  
> i've decided this is gonna be a six part series btw, and each is gonna be a character study of from a different character's perspective each time. i even have the titles picked out if y'all want a sneak peak. not plots yet though whoops i should work on that.
> 
> today's song recs: closer by slow magic and this song is not about a girl by chet faker + flume

Contrary to popular belief, Jacobi isn’t a cold fish. He has feelings just like the rest of them. Feelings like anger. And resentment. And void.

And, once in a blue moon, happiness. Et cetera, et cetera. Whatever. He doesn’t like talking about it.

The first time he fell in love, it wasn’t with a person. It was with the _concept_ of a person. He fell in love with the idea of falling in love.

It wasn’t toxic, never toxic. Just brief and burning and terrifyingly dysfunctional, and that time, entirely not his fault. Well, a little bit his fault. Pretty fifty-fifty, if he’s being honest. But the blame didn’t rest solely on him.

It rested on Kepler, really. Entirely. Mostly. (Fifty-fifty.)

In Kepler’s defense, sleeping with your boss is never a smart idea, but in Jacobi’s, sleeping with your employee isn’t a particularly great one either.

When a sugar-voiced stranger showed up to an excessively wasted Jacobi in some skanky off-the-grid bar and told him he understood him, Jacobi couldn’t help but cling. When that stranger introduced himself, introduced his company, told him he had a place there, with him, with them — hell, it was lies, all lies, but somehow, he didn’t care, just wanted this silver-tongued bastard to take him under his wing and promise him salvation over and over again in that stupid, saccharine voice.

And when he met Alana Maxwell, she filled the void in his chest where he’s fairly certain a family was supposed to go. He’s pretty sure that was the breaking point for him.

He’d never fallen in love as a teenager. Too busy tearing pages from the anarchist cookbook to keep in his pockets, crinkled and fingerprinted and oil-stained, punctured halfway through by a mismanaged pocket knife, to reference when he saw fit. He had crushes, sure. Flirted with one too many bartenders. Couldn’t go more than eight minutes in a conversation with someone without making a bad pun about his sexuality. He wasn’t immune to Cupid’s bullshit, but it never progressed to the point of love.

But then he sat there, in the flickering lights of some shitty motel, while Kepler bandaged the bullet wound on Jacobi’s arm and Maxwell googled how to keep it from getting infected. He bit his tongue until it bled and listened to Kepler’s brittle, cruel chiding, to Maxwell’s soft keyboard clicks and absent humming, and thought, _hell, maybe this is love. Maybe this is family. Maybe I’m in love with him._

He was not, fortunately, in love with him. It would’ve ended a lot worse if he had been.

It still didn’t end well, though.

He had this ideal in his head, of being in a real relationship. Maybe not two and a half kids and a white picket fence, maybe not chocolates and roses and _i-love-you’s,_ but at least something semi-functional, something committed and honest and clear. But he was an alcoholic, nihilistic wreck with a tendency towards not valuing the beating of his own heart, and Kepler had more in common with a biblical swarm of locusts than an actual human being. It never could’ve worked. He bound himself to the idea of a real relationship, and Kepler didn’t want that. Kepler didn’t want feelings. Kepler very _explicitly_ stated that he didn’t want feelings.

So, three days of silent-treatment later, Jacobi said _fuck your feelings_ and found someone else.

And then kissed that someone-else right in front of Kepler, just to drive the stake in further.

He remembers the fuming silence. He remembers the days of dead quiet, he remembers the ten minutes of getting screamed at and screaming back, and he remembers just one week passing before Maxwell got stabbed in the middle of a mission, and he and Kepler carrying her out and patching her up and sitting with her while she recovered, and after that the focus was shifted away, so far away. Jacobi had Klein, and Kepler pretended not to care, and their fragile little family was put back together again, not like it had always been, but maybe better. Healthier. Like kintsugi, repairing a broken thing with gold where the cracks used to be, pretentious shit like that.

Incidentally, the second time he fell in love was nicer.

Klein was such a sweetheart. He was definitely in love with Klein, for a little while there. But Jacobi was prone to jumping in front of bullets and drowning his liver in vodka just a bit too often, and it broke Klein’s heart, over and over and over. Klein was looking for something pure and stable, and Jacobi was neither.

Klein told him about his new assignment, told him about the Hermes, and that was it for them. Jacobi said something shitty, Klein said something shitty back. They had been so close, for a long time, but it didn’t last. It was Jacobi’s fault, through and through. He thought about Klein for a long time, even after he and the SI-5 followed suit and took off into the black between the stars. And then he stopped thinking about him entirely.

Right up until he saw Klein in that damned ship — not Klein, Klein’s corpse, Klein’s corpse possessed by some piece of shit software, prancing around with Klein’s kind voice and Klein’s steady hands but not his eyes, _not_ his eyes. Those bastards caged him like a taxidermy fox, but they couldn’t preserve his eyes. Those eyes were glassy, empty, void. Might as well have been ripped out of his skull. Klein’s eyes were never dull.

What Jacobi did to Klein that day wasn’t murder. Klein was long gone. He was just putting a walking carcass out of its misery. He understands that.

But maybe, back on Earth, if he had — if he had been a better friend, a better boyfriend. If he had set down the shot glass every once in a while just to listen, to fake stability, to mimic empathy. Maybe Klein wouldn’t have been so eager to leave. Maybe he’d have stayed on Earth, safe, with him, and things wouldn’t have been great, but they’d’ve been better, so much better. Better than this. Better than dead.

Jacobi’s still alive, though, no matter how much time he spends pretending he’s not.

But Klein — Klein, and Kepler, and Maxwell. Oh, Maxwell. Maxwell and her cherry-red hair, as rich of a red as Wolf was. Smelled like cherries, too, god knows how. To this day he hasn’t got a clue how she managed to bleach and dye and condition her hair on a goddamn space station. Probably made it herself, made some sort of custom, makeshift cherry-scented shampoo out of rocket fuel and WD-40 and stardust to boot, just for the hell of it.

The bullet hole in her forehead was the same color as her eyes, and the blood matched her hair so perfectly. It was picturesque and gruesome and devastating.

He misses her.

So much.

 _So_ much.

He understands. He really does. Why Minkowski slaughtered her. Why it’s all his fault. But he misses her.

At least it was a quick death.

He runs his fingers through Eiffel’s hair. He’s still asleep, head rested on Jacobi’s lap.

The movie ended half an hour ago. Minkowski and Hera left the room ten minutes after. The room is dark and still except for Eiffel’s soft, steady breathing, the rise and fall of his ribs, gentle against Jacobi’s elbow, arm crooked around his form as to not jostle him. The wiry tangle of his bangs around Jacobi’s fingers. The coolness of the air.

It’s late. He should leave.

Or maybe he should stay, so he doesn’t wake Eiffel.

He’s a strong man. It takes little effort to pick Eiffel up. A hell of a lot more effort than it took up in zero-gravity, but, hey, it’s not his fault. It’s Earth’s. Fuck Earth. Space was simpler. Space prioritized vital signs and air stats and ballistic missiles over the stupid intricacies of human-to-human contact. Space never gave him gently-sleeping amnesiacs to lift without waking. Space never forced him to care about shit like this.

Jacobi carefully maneuvers Eiffel through the doorway into his room, and he lays him on the edge of his bed, rolling his eyes as he tosses a stray blanket across Eiffel’s waist. He’s lying on his own arm. It’ll be numb by morning.

“Sweet dreams, dumbass,” Jacobi says quietly, and leaves.

He avoids Eiffel for ten days after this. Maybe nine. Whatever. Who’s counting? (Jacobi’s counting. It’s nine.)

Can’t look at him without wanting to brush his fingers across his jaw, to curl up against his shoulders like he’s a glacier and Jacobi’s got heatstroke. Pathetic, stupid, irrational, meaningless emotions. Emotions which he needs to ignore before he blows this up like he’s blown up every social bond he’s ever had. But then his poor impulse control kicks in, and he’s swinging by the diner again, saying _hi_ to the still-haven’t-asked-for-her-name-yet waitress, asking if Eiffel’s in as if Jacobi hasn’t already memorized his schedule to the minute.

There are eight minutes left in Eiffel’s shift. Jacobi’s personal calculation. Eiffel gives his newly-patented puppy dog eyes to whatever-the-fuck-her-name-is, and, after she begrudgingly nods at him, he slides into the booth next to Jacobi with a grin.

He tells him about his day, about how Minkowski and Hera have gone off on some trip, about his favorite regulars and least favorite pies and how he almost set the kitchen on fire (again). And then he rests his head on Jacobi’s shoulder and says he doesn’t want diner food for dinner again, asks if Jacobi knows any other restaurants.

“Pizza? Freida’s has some kickass pizza,” Jacobi offers, and Eiffel scrunches his nose in protest.

“Love the stuff, but it’s basically all Minkowski ever eats, except for some weird-ass salads.”

He huffs amusedly and tries to think of — well, anything other than a bar. “Err, Italian. There’s the place on Second and Lakeview?”

“Hera says that place sucks.”

“Hera has literally never eaten food in her life,” Jacobi points out. “Even if it does definitely suck.”

“Fair point. What about the seafood place across from the park?”

“Which park?”

“Y’know, the big one. With the amphitheater and all the skyscrapers and the pathway that looks like a really cool snake.”

“The place with the weird wooden benches?”

“No, no, the one with the cheap lobster rolls that you really like.”

“Shit. I think they’re closed on Mondays.”

“Why are they closed on Mondays?”

“God knows. Probably out fishing.”

Eiffel laughs, flicking Jacobi on the shoulder as he stands to leave, hooking his elbow with Jacobi’s. “What about sushi?”

“Where at?”

“No, I mean sushi in general. What’s it taste like?”

“You’ve… never had sushi.”

“Technically I’ve only existed as an individual for, like, a few months.”

“Ah, I forgot. Blank-slate bastard,” Jacobi mocks.

Eiffel kicks sideways at Jacobi’s ankle with a smirk, slipping through the door just behind him. “Fuck off. What does sushi taste like?”

“Expensive.”

“If you can spend three hundred dollars on a jacket, you can spend thirty buying me dinner.”

He scoffs in mock-offense. “I’ll have you know, I look hot as _hell_ in this jacket.”

“You do. You also look like a tremendous prick.”

“Exactly what I was going for.”

“Then you’ve succeeded brilliantly. Is there a good sushi place around here, or are you gonna keep whining about your dubiously-obtained money stash to a guy who makes minimum wage?”

Jacobi laughs, and they slip through the darkening streets, greyish light scattered down onto their heads from the clouds overhead.

They learn, over the course of several hours, that Eiffel is both a big fan of sushi and completely incapable of picking it up without getting nori all over his hands. Jacobi struggles overwhelmingly with scooping up rice with chopsticks, a skill which Eiffel has, against all logic and reason, perfectly mastered even after the total brain-scrambling. Motherfucker. Eiffel offers to ask for a fork for him, but he’s a stubborn bastard, through and through, and no matter how shitty his parents were, Mama didn’t raise a fucking quitter.

(A solid fifty percent of the rice grains from his bowl end up on his napkin and not in his mouth, but for someone with as little delicacy as Jacobi, one-to-one ain’t too bad of a ratio.)

It’s all too domestic for his taste, he thinks. Whatever _this_ is. It’s too stable, he tells himself, too stable and too difficult to sabotage, too sickly sweet with not nearly enough of the scent of blood or dynamite. But then he cracks a joke about breaking into a firework store, and Eiffel laughs and considers it genuinely for a minute, as if it might actually be an option.

They don’t.

Steal any firecrackers, that is.

But he does tell Eiffel how to make souped-up bootleg bottle rockets, and Eiffel maybe-definitely-implies that he would _absolutely_ participate in that stunt, if Jacobi were to maybe-definitely-hypothetically build one or two or a dozen.

He doesn’t deserve this man. He doesn’t know what fucking universal constants allowed Eiffel to exist in the same time and place as him, but Jacobi’s far too mildly-horrendous of a person to have found someone so… good.

Like, what the hell is Eiffel _doing?_ Is this… is this flirting? Is he flirting? Does he even know what flirting is? Why the fuck are they holding hands? Oh, god, they’re holding hands. When did they start holding hands? Does Eiffel have “hand-holding” in his amnesiac vocabulary?

Jacobi lets his fingertips brush over the beds of Eiffel’s nails and the backs of his fingers, gouged into with rough scar tissue from cryo-frostbite Eiffel doesn’t even remember getting. He’s used to marks like that. His own hands are coated heels to fingertips with jagged, splattered old burn marks, but for some reason it just looks out of place on Eiffel. Maybe it’s the whole blank-slate thing. An imbalanced metaphor. His brain was wiped clean, but the rest of him wasn’t.

They’ve healed brilliantly, in spite of it all — thanks for the blood, Lovelace — but scars like that aren’t ever going away.

Eiffel is yet to ask about their origin. Maybe for the best.

Jacobi links his hand back with Eiffel’s as they leave the restaurant, listening to him invent a fake but greatly improved plot summary of _Breakfast Club,_ a movie that neither of them have even watched, or have any interest in watching, or know _anything_ about. Apparently Eiffel’s decided it should have ghosts. He can’t help but agree.

He thinks he gets the whole “not isolating yourself” thing a little more now.

He’s not a fucking recluse, not by a long shot — that title still firmly belongs to Lovelace, wherever the hell she is — but he’s never been great with. With. People? With people. He could deal with Maxwell and Kepler, but they were more monsters than people (a self-proclaimed title), and so was he, so they clicked well.

Eiffel’s people, right?

So Jacobi’s definitely gonna end up sabotaging this, _right?_

Because he _hasn’t_ earned this, hasn’t earned affection and proximity and _emotions._ He got a first chance, and a second one, and he fucked them up spectacularly. Didn’t do a damn thing to earn a third chance. Jacobi’s never been one for personal growth.

Fuck that, though. Fuck statistics. Third time’s a charm. (He hopes.)

No, not _hopes._

He’ll fight for this if it kills him. A low bar, given the sheer amount of illegal explosives he’s accidentally inhaled the fumes of over the years. But still a valid goal. No self-sabotage, no self-destruction. He’s obviously not gonna _keep_ this promise to himself, but it’s the thought that counts.

He considers tagging a squad car for about three tenths of a second before he remembers he’s a legally dead fugitive currently holding hands with another legally dead fugitive. Fucking with the cops is gutsy even for him. And dragging Eiffel down with him is just a step too low for his taste.

That, and the fact that Maxwell was always the one with the spray paint.

And then they’re walking side by side, flingers latched under the slate-green sky, like an alley cat with a struggling crow caught in its teeth, and he’s not sure which is him and which is Eiffel but he _really_ needs to stop crafting himself into these morbid similes, planning failures preemptively — because, hell, maybe he’s changed, maybe he hasn’t, maybe he never will, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least _try_ to build a healthy friendship for once. His hands may be made of match sticks, but they’ve been drenched for long enough to no longer be volatile. Or maybe they’re just badly tarnished sodium, and he’s a second away from catastrophe.

He walks Eiffel home, doing his best to assuage his protests. Eiffel says he’s perfectly capable of walking home himself, Jacobi insists that Eiffel is more likely to get mugged, Eiffel resents the accusation but agrees after a fraction of a second thinking about it, shit like that. Just stupid banter. Jacobi doesn’t know why he’s smiling so much. Smiling’s not his thing. Smiling’s never been his thing.

The smile slips off his face after a moment’s pause once they arrive at the door to Eiffel’s apartment. “So… bye,” he offers, and turns to leave, biting his tongue at his own awkwardness. A sharp bit of cold falls onto his jaw. Rain. It’s starting to drizzle.

Eiffel’s not gonna let him off that easy, though. Jerk.

“What, no ‘this was fun’ or ‘see you soon’? Not even a ’try not to trip and die on your way up the stairs’?” Eiffel jokes, twisting him back around.

This motherfucker is a magnet, and Jacobi’s a scrap of discarded iron, and this. Won’t. End. Well.

He does his best to not hover. It’s a failed effort.

“Name one occasion, and I mean _one_ occasion, on which I have made small talk. Ever,” Jacobi pleads, buying time, trying to find an out. An escape route. Maybe playing dead will do the job.

“Literally ever time Renée has ever been in the room,” Eiffel points out, and _damn,_ he has a point.

“That’s because I hate her.”

“You don’t hate her.”

“You don’t know the half of what she’s done.”

“I don’t need to,” Eiffel states, nodding slightly. “I just need to know you. And I do. And I know that you don’t hate her.”

“You know very little about me, Douglas ‘Orion’ F. Eiffel,” he says, a taunting tinge in his voice. Digging himself in deeper, and he knows it. His subconscious is fucking _reeling_ right about now.

“And yet, I know more about you than _you_ know about you. For example, your favorite color.”

“I don’t have a favorite color. I don’t care about colors.”

“Your favorite color is orange.”

He pauses. “How — how exactly is my favorite color orange?”

“You hate blue, you’re pretty clear about that. You’re weird about green foods, which I don’t get. You’re also weird about deep red, which I think I _almost_ get. Blood and all that. You’re almost edgy enough for your favorite to just be black —”

_“Hey!”_

“— I said almost,” he teases. “But you’re _too_ edgy for it to be yellow or pink. Plus, yellow and pink are mine, and you can’t have them. But, ultimately, blue is your least favorite, and orange is basically the opposite of blue. You’re stubborn like that.”

“I don’t have a favorite color,” he insists, but his facade is slipping.

“Your favorite color is orange,” Eiffel repeats.

He sighs quietly, the corners of his lips flickering upwards. “Orange is… nice. Sure. I like orange.”

“Told you,” Eiffel states, smug as ever. He really has absorbed a decent chunk of Jacobi’s personality. And Minkowski’s. And Hera’s, for that matter. They’re all pretty fucking smug, to be honest.

“What was the point of this argument?” he tries, desperately trying to find an excuse to let his antisocial brain take off full-speed in the opposite direction.

“You don’t do small talk,” Eiffel reminds him. Full circle.

“I _can_ do small talk,” he protests, as if that wasn’t the exact opposite of his original point.

“Then do some small talk,” he lures, hovering just as much as Jacobi is.

“I…” He pauses. “This was fun. See you — see you soon.”

Eiffel giggles, and he looks absolutely ridiculous trying to bring his hands to his face to cover his laughter. “Are you sure you don’t want an umbrella or a scarf or something?” he asks, but he just stands in front of his door, not opening it yet, just watching, maybe thinking, maybe waiting.

Jacobi used to hate the drum of city-sounds. Years in the painful stillness of space have changed that. It’s the perfect amount of quiet-loud here, now, never silent, always humming with a cool white noise, textured with the occasion horn or siren or screech of tires.

He’s not quite used to the glare of neon lights or the identical, unending lines of concrete, flickering like a too-close mirror in his memory to the glimmers of stars and the broad panels of metal plating coating his ship. Even cities feel claustrophobic now, _suffocating_ now. But Eiffel’s here, standing steady, and his breathing is always cool and calm and with a little bit of displaced chaos, which makes it _almost-_ a-okay.

Eiffel dusts his fingers across Jacobi’s jugular, light as a butterfly, and kisses the corner of Jacobi’s lips, before slipping back away and disappearing into his apartment.

Jacobi just stands there, frozen solid, staring blankly at the door like it’s the only thing between him and hyperventilation.

“Wait,” he says quietly, after what could’ve been a fraction of a second or could’ve been a half hour, and to no one in particular. “What?”

He stands in that same spot for definitely-way-too-long, sighs deeply into his hands, and begins to walk the few blocks back to his place. The rain doesn’t worsen. The impending dread in his heart does.

Because — god damnit. Fuck. He’s in love. Shit.

He lays down on the floor for a while. He’s not sure why.

He didn’t leave the heat on when he left his place, but it’s stayed tolerably warm in the few hours he’s been gone. It’s comfortable. He hates comfortable. He’d thought, the whole time he’d been up there, up in space, that he’d have gained an appreciation for comfort as a concept. Now it just bores him.

Maybe that’s just not what comfortable is for him anymore, though. Maybe he’s just comfortable with chaos instead of steadiness now. Or some sort of middle ground. Life is pretty weird right now. His thoughts are conflicting.

He almost wants to lunge himself back into the rain again, no matter now much he used to claim he hated it before.

Maybe he’s changed as much as the others. Eiffel stopped being Eiffel. Hera got legs. Pryce transformed into something almost human. Minkowski became… tolerable. Hell, even Lovelace has shown hints of trust and peacefulness during her calls with Minkowski (which he has _definitely_ not been eavesdropping on).

And now, he’s annoyed by loneliness, and likes the rain. He wonders what else has changed.

A quick glance at his liquor cabinet tells him, _apparently, not much._ His own impulse to down a fifth of tequila tells him, _apparently, nothing at all._

Except, he changes his mind.

He changes his mind, and wonders what else is about to change. This line of thinking, this hunger for change, is flammable. Dangerous. Absurd. All his favorite adjectives wrapped up in one mindset. He might just like the new him. Or at least hate it a bit less than usual.

A pause. More rain.

He chucks his most fragile-looking vodka bottle against the wall, full force, and grins as it shatters like a frag grenade.

It’s beautiful, really. One of his personal favorite wonders of physics. Not a rarity, he’s seen a hell of a lot of broken bottles in his time, but the dent it leaves in his wall is just harsh enough, the splash pattern of the glass just sharp enough that he honest to god couldn’t give the slightest shit about his lost security deposit.

It’s a mess, though, and probably shouldn’t be repeated. He takes the rest of the bottles from the cabinet, sets them semi-carefully upside-down in the sink, watches them spill out for a long second, takes a deep breath of the caustic, bittersweet scent, and gets to cleaning.

To be fair, he’s… he’s not the most careful person. He manages to get a pretty nasty cut across his palm almost immediately, maybe not bad enough to substantially add to his collection of demolitions scars, but still something he should wash and bandage. It takes him a minute to notice. His hands don’t quite have all the nerve endings in fully functional condition. Or maybe he’s just thinking of other things.

Eiffel was wrong about orange, though. Partially wrong. A little bit wrong.

Jacobi’s developed a weird attachment to the color orange, sure. He… it reminds him of. Something. Someone. Someone’s spaceship uniform. Maybe. Whatever. (Eiffel doesn’t need to know. His ego’s big enough as is.)

So, yes, whatever, orange is his number one.

But Eiffel really shouldn’t have ruled out red, though. He’s weird about blood because it distracts him, not because it traumatizes him. He likes it. Blood’s an intoxicating color. And a classic fashion statement of his, when it inevitably stains every article of his clothing. Blood’s familiar. Red’s classic.

Orange, though. It’s fiery. Warm. He hates that he loves it.

He washes it. Doesn’t bandage it. Apparently doesn’t own any bandages, and wouldn’t have fucking cared enough to wrap it well, if he’s gonna be completely honest.

But the bleeding stops quickly. It’s superficial, all bark, no bite.

This right here — this is his favorite scent. That coppery, rainy vodka scent. _That_ scent. The one he usually only gets to smell when his life’s in some sort of strange, peril danger, which is, tragically and blessedly, still pretty often.

The room is eerily clean. The noise is staticky with rain. His hands are clear of everything except blood. It’s a deeply familiar feeling. He finds comfort in it.

He pauses.

He doesn’t want to be here.

There’s nothing wrong with it here. His hand stings pleasantly, the atmosphere’s fine, the noise is fine, the tone’s fine, he’s content, whatever. He should be ecstatic, really. This category of shit used to be an adrenaline binge of his a lifetime ago, a fantastic, terrifying, comforting feeling that he sought out at great personal cost time and time again, but compared to the last few years? Compared to plunging spaceships into stars, getting shot, getting blown up, blowing himself up? Lovely shit like that? This is just mildly amusing to him.

Here’s not bad, but he doesn’t want to be here.

He wonders how pissed Eiffel’ll be when he wakes him up.

And he rolls his eyes at his own hesitance, and steps out into the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos mean the world. thank you so much for reading!!!


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